5
Once we have all our food, I swipe my badge through the scanner to check out. “Where do you want to sit?” I ask as we wind our way through the cafeteria, dodging tables and chairs.
“Anywhere,” he says, holding his tray out in front of him. “Where do you usually sit?”
“In my office.” I scan ahead. Half the tables are empty.
My comment earns an odd look from Ethan, his eyebrows scrunching together. “You eat by yourself?” he clarifies, like he can’t imagine it. The idea of voluntarily eating alone.
“Yeah.” My shoulders stiffen defensively.
We find a table in the corner of the room and settle in, sitting across from each other. Ethan bends over his plate, spooning Jello into his mouth. In between bites, he asks, “What’s your story? Tell me about yourself.”
“Not much to tell. I’m from Las Vegas, and now I live here.” I don’t dwell on what a relief it had been to leave Vegas. Falling silent, I start in on my food, hoping that will be the end of small talk.
I should have known better.
“Vegas, huh?” Ethan straightens, gazing at me with a spark of interest. “I’ve only been once, for a friend’s birthday, but we had a blast.”
I wince. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You gambled and went to clubs.” I’ve seen firsthand what kind of “fun” guys can find on the Strip.
“Yep.” Ethan smirks. “Also, saw a couple of shows, the good ones with the acrobatics.” A forkful of salad goes into his mouth. He chews slowly. “Do you go back there often? Vegas?”
“No.” I give a small shake of my head, hating what comes next. No matter how many times I say it, this part never gets easier. “My mom passed away. I don’t have anyone else.”
You and me, Kitten. Us against the world.
“I’m sorry.” Ethan frowns with sympathy. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”
I nod, lips in a thin line, and look away, blinking rapidly.
After a heavy pause, he asks, “No one left there? Not even friends?”
Friends.
The word conjures an image of Shelly, not the teenage version with the too-thick eyeliner and dark lipstick, but the girl from when we were little. Those round cheeks and dirty blonde hair that turned to gold every summer, sun-bleached from the pool.
“No friends.” Clenching my plastic fork so hard the edges dig into my fingertips, I fall quiet, finding comfort in the silence, wrapping it around me like a shroud.
Ethan fidgets for a minute, scraping his food around on his plate but not lifting the fork to his mouth. Finally, he exhales audibly. “Do you like radiology?”
I can’t help it. A laugh sputters out of me. “Wow. You really are bad at this, aren’t you?”
“Bad at what?” His straight eyebrows angle downward, half-offended and half-perplexed.
“Bad at not talking. Bad at sitting quietly.” I take a sip of water. My almost-empty glass leaves a wet ring on the table.
“Maybe,” he admits, somewhat sheepishly. “I used to get into trouble for it at school, talking to my classmates. By the end of the year, the teacher would have me in my own desk, off in the corner of the room, separated from everyone else.”
“Did it work?” A corner of my mouth lifts involuntarily.
“Nah. I’d still yell over to my friends.” He smiles at the memory. “It probably made me louder, not quieter. I just like it. Talking to people, getting to know them.”
He turns his attention back to his plate, systematically eating his food like it’s five-star dining. Which is crazy. I mean, it’s hospital cafeteria food. We all know it’s not good. Ethan sucks a dollop of ketchup off his thumb. My gaze snags on that motion, and, for some reason, my cheeks heat. To distract myself, I ask, “How about you? Where’re you from?”
Almost all his food is gone. Only a couple of fries remain. He pops them into his mouth one by one before answering. He has a nice mouth, full and sensual. “I’ve always lived in Cleveland. My family’s been there for generations. Both of my parents are doctors. The hospital where I’m doing my internal medicine residency—my dad used to work there.”
I blink, unable to imagine it. That kind of permanence. Having all that family history to help tell you who you are. I had to make up who I am. It must be so easy for him. To walk in footprints his parents laid out in front of him.
Done with my food, I neatly arrange my used silverware in the middle of my plate and push it to the side. Ethan’s finished, too. His plate is a messy pile of crumbs and smeared ketchup. He pulls a pack of peppermint gum out of his pocket and offers me a stick. I shake my head no.
This time, the silence is less awkward. He doesn’t let it last long. “Listen, I know you’re mad at me—”
“I’m not,” I interrupt, straightening.
“Yes, you are. I don’t blame you.” His gaze is steady. “You’re angry at me for interrupting your lecture and for messing up your shirt. You haven’t bothered to hide your feelings, and I like that. I appreciate people who say what they think, who are direct.”
Flustered by the compliment, I open and close my mouth several times, searching for a response. He holds up a hand, halting me. “I’m sorry for how we met, but don’t worry. You’ll get over it.” He sends me that smile, the infuriatingly charming one, before adding, “I’m insanely likable.”
My mouth drops open in shock. I retort, “Insanely cocky is more like it.”
His smirk widens, unshaken by my words. “Not cocky.” His eyes graze over my face in a way that sends a tremor through my body, like I’m having my own mini-earthquake. “Confident,” he continues, lazily draping his arm across the back of the chair next to him. “There’s a difference.”
“Overly confident,” I fire back, crossing my arms over my chest.
Now he moves forward, bracing his elbows on the table, eyes twinkling. “I promise,” he says. That smile again, this time unfurling slowly. “I’ll grow on you.”
“Yeah.” I snort and roll my eyes. “Like a rash.”
He throws his head back, laughing like a little kid, so loud the whole cafeteria turns to us and I slink down in my seat, embarrassed. Ethan looks at me like I’m incredibly amusing, which I most definitely am not.
“Besides, most people don’t like it.” I stare at the floor, littered with crumbs, then drift my gaze back up to him. “When I’m direct.”
“Well, then.” He leans closer, his eyes sharpening with a strange intensity, and says softly, “Good thing I’m not most people.”
We stare at each other for a moment too long.
Ethan’s expression turns serious. He clasps his hands together on the table. “Be honest. Are you going to stop me?”
“Stop you from what?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “From getting into this residency. You don’t want to go to Cleveland.”
I pause, secretly impressed by his boldness. Then I laugh loudly at the thought that I have any power in this situation. More likely, Dr. Washburn arranged this tour to waste time. To give Ethan’s interview a thin veneer of legitimacy. “The fact that you’re even here makes me ninety percent sure you’ve already got the spot. My opinion will have nothing to do with it.”
He frowns, those expressive eyebrows inching downward. “That leaves ten percent of uncertainty. Ten percent that can change my life.”
Oh,I get it then. How much this means to him. Back when I was trying to get into radiology, I was scared too. Worried that if I didn’t make it into this residency, I’d have to choose a different specialty. I couldn’t imagine it. Going to work for the rest of my life doing something that was my second choice.
I meet his eyes. “I won’t block you. If they ask me, I won’t sabotage you.”
He must have been holding his breath, because now he blows it all out at once. “Thanks,” he says softly, nodding in acknowledgment.
Before I can respond, we’re interrupted by Melanie. Patrick, another first-year resident, follows closely behind her. They slide their trays onto our table and sit. Melanie darts her eyes to Ethan, then sends me a secretive smirk. I kick her lightly under the table, but she moves her leg out of my reach and grins wider.
The new arrivals pick up their forks and dig in. As much as I like Melanie, I have an equal dislike for pompous, boring Patrick. I make introductions, and Melanie strikes up an animated conversation with Ethan. She mostly covers information I already know—where Ethan is from, why he likes radiology, and so on.
Occasionally, Patrick interjects comments about himself. He tells Ethan all about why he chose radiology and how it is one of the higher-paid specialties. Apparently, no one ever taught Patrick that talking about money is impolite.
Now that I don’t have to entertain Ethan, my mind returns to the strange text message from this morning. Who sent it and why? My mouth goes dry thinking about it. Hoping a drink will help, I get up to refill my glass. When I return, the atmosphere is strained. Ethan frowns down at the table with his jaw clenched. Melanie’s normally jovial face is pale.
“Hey guys, what’s going on?” I ask lightly.
“Nothing.” Melanie’s a terrible liar.
Maybe I should force them to explain what’s happening, but one look at all those tense faces makes me pause.
For now, I let it be.